Of Blood and Fire
by Leosnow
Summary: House Draton is a minor house vassal of house Ryswell of the north. Despite being small, the house is known for their superb and rather large cavalry. But like the rest of the Northern houses, the Dratons are thrown into disarray during the War of the Five e Dratons must cope with the political intrigue and battles or be extinguished.


Over the sounds of owls, bats and other creatures of the night, merry songs vibrated the cool air over the tents of the encampment. The camp stretched well over a mile and yet it was still cramped with many tents, bonfires, and bodies. Flags were proudly displayed, flowing in the cool breeze that drafted from the river. Of the flags that were strewn about the camp, Roland could see three that were the most prominently displayed. One bared the Stark sigil of a gray direwolf on a white field, another displaying the white trout on a red and blue background of house Tully and finally the last flag showed the twin towers of House Frey.

 _By far the worst house in the Riverlands_ , Roland mused, _no, that is too generous. More like the worst house in Westeros._

He sighed and ran a hand through his chestnut hair. He needed to focus, needed to check the supplies, the rations, and the soldier's morale.

 _Too many things to do than get distracted by tonight's festivities_

Roland got up from the stump that he was occupying next to the campfire. His laughing companions, drinking and already far down into their cups, barely noticed his leave. He made his way to his tent, a rather big one than most that were raised but it was by no means exuberant, at least not like how some of the other, more prestigious, lord's tents were. Roland weaved about the campfires, and the celebrating soldiers. All around him, they were drinking, joking, singing and enjoying the night. And a quite a bit of them were hollering the name of their great Northern king.

 _King Robb Stark, the Young Wolf_ , Roland thought, _the King of the North. Or as some would call him, the King that lost the North._ He chuckled bitterly at the thought. Roland can sympathize with the rest of his fellow northern lords. He would rather be back north reclaiming the lost holdfasts and territories than occupy the south. Yet at the same time, they couldn't ignore the threat of the iron throne either.

 _Well, the Greyjoy rebellion isn't as taxing on House Draton. Father hasn't sent me any word that any of the squids has reached Mistfall._

Roland had finally reached his tent and had just opened his flap when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Milord! Lord Draton!"

Roland turned around and found himself in front of a young gangly lad of ten and four. He had a short crop of dusty black hair and despite his being four years younger than Roland, he was already of equal height. He grinned at the lad, who was struggling to catch his breath.

"Easy Rick, catch yer breath."

"Milord something is about to happen!" Rick exclaimed. His small dark beady eyes darted about warily.

Roland laughed merrily. "Aye, something is about to happen," He draped his arm over the boys shoulder and lead him into the tent. "A wedding between our magnificent king's uncle and a blushing Frey bride" he said dryly.

Rick shook himself of Roland's arm and looked exasperated. He flailed his arm around. "Not that, milord! I'm not a lackwit!" He looked out the tent on guard and then lowered his voice so much so that Roland had to step closer and lower his head to hear "Milord, the Freys, they are not drinking"

He brought his head back and raised an eyebrow, scrutinizing his squire. Rick squirmed under his gaze and lowered his head, avoiding to look at Roland in the eyes.

Roland laughed "And Rick?" Trying to get more out of the boy.

 _So the Freys are not drinking? What am I to assume from that? Bugger them if they are not, it's more ale for the rest of us._

"If anything, the Freys are saving their ale. You know how the bastards are. They cut costs on everything, bum everyone because of that stupid toll to cross the river. If anything, I'm surprised they gave us any ale at all, for being the cheap bastards that they are," said Roland. He went to his desk and set down the mug of ale that he was carrying till now.

Rick straightened and a gleam went into his eyes. "See, but that's it! The Freys, a group known for being selfish and exuberant of themselves is now all of a sudden being generous and not drinking a drop of ale! It's very suspicious" he said with renewed fervor.

Roland frowned and crossed his arms. Now that he thought about it. When he was walking around the camp, checking on his soldiers, all the Frey soldiers were indeed sober. None of them were drinking or even partaking in the festivities. They were huddling close to their tents, distancing themselves. And the Frey lot was known for their rambunctious drinking habits… but even with the unusual behavior, Roland couldn't see anything of it, any rhyme or reason to it.

"And Rick? I will admit it's unusual, especially for them. But I have no idea the reason to it." He sighed exasperated, "And as suspicious as it may be. What am I supposed to do? Force ale down their throats?"

"Milord," He fiddled nervously with his thumbs. "I assume" He paused and bit at his lip. He then spoke slowly as if making sure what he said was understood. "What I am trying to say is to be careful milord. Stay away from the Freys. Before you generously gave me the position of squiring for you, I had my fair share of time in the bad corners of Westeros. If I had learned anything in my life it's that people are creatures of habit. Anything out of habit needs to be taken with a grain of caution. At least until you know why it's being done." It wasn't until after he had his say that Rick finally looked Roland in the eyes, with a stare that was imploring him to so…. Something. As to what, Roland did not have a clue.

"Thank you Rick" Roland said with a slanted grin. "For your words of wisdom. They shall forever be in my heart and mind" For emphasis, he placed his hands over his chest lovingly.

Rick narrowed his eyes and straightened his back "Just be careful, milord" He went to the flap of the tent and looked back at his lord, to have his leave. Roland waved his hand, ushering him out.

 _Maybe Rick had one too many mugs of ale_ , Roland mused, _from the way he was acting, I would be expecting a coup._

He uncrossed his arms and settled onto his desk seat. In front of him was a pile of letters, ranging in length. Roland reached for the longest one. On it could be seen two forms of writing.

 _No doubt from the twins. Gods I miss them so much, I've been gone from home for too long. I haven't even seen Cerlina yet._

Roland's lady mother Arenna, was carrying her fifth child, when Roland left for the war. Her stomach was still flat indicative of the first months of pregnancy. And now just a few nights ago, he had received a raven carrying the letter that informed that his mother delivered safely a new healthy baby sister. The news was the most joyous he had received in recent time.

 _Well other than the Frey wedding we're having now. But it's not so joyous considering it was supposed to be the King that was to be the groom. Ah seven hells, I shouldn't let the other northern lords' views touch me. As long as we cross the bridge we shouldn't care who marries the Frey girl. But then again, the King did marry a Westernlander instead of a Northern girl…._

Roland shook his head. He shouldn't be delving into politics tonight. Tonight would probably be one of the only nights for a while that would give him reprieve from all of the madness. He grabbed his mug to drink and found that he was on his last drops.

"Damn it," Roland muttered, "Just when I need Rick" He sighed, _Agh better get it myself._

He got up from his desk and walked out of his tent. It was well into the night by now and the wedding ceremony should have ended. Assuming it was just a traditional light of the seven wedding, the feast would be underway. Lost in his thoughts, he stared at the towering twins whose shadows fell on the camp while working his way to the ale stations. In his path was an assortment of Tully and Stark bannermen.

 _Not a Frey in sight_

While passing by a particular campfire, a brash Tully soldier stood up and grasped Roland by the shoulder.

"Hey lad!" He guttered out slowly, "Be kind, and get your elder a mug of ale would ya?" He shoved his mug into Roland's hands before Roland could respond to his lack of respect.

"Excuse me?" Roland exclaimed. Anger started to boil under his skin. A lad? Roland was anything but a lad. These past few months had him leading house Draton's men. He was in battle where he had fought and killed his share of men. He had responsibilities that this Tully man, his elder, would never have on his shoulders. He was about to reprimand the soldier, when a Stark man, a Hornwood specifically, stood up quickly realizing his fellow campmate's mistake. He grabbed the Tully man and pushed him aside.

"Forgive him, Lord Draton," the soldier responded hastily, bowing his head low in respect, "he has had too much to drink, as you can see." Both men turned their heads to the Tully man at his side who was wobbling unsteadily on his feet.

Roland nodded, his anger quickly cooling. He saw no reason to lash out at a soldier too drunk to even regain balance.

 _He probably won't remember this moment on the morrow morning._

"As you were, gentlemen" Roland stated to the soldiers. He was about to leave but then turned back to the Hornwood man. "Once that fellow turns sober enough, do properly inform him who are the lords residing in the camp" The man nodded hastily and the other followed suite. Roland, satisfied, nodded his farewell and returned to walking to the ale stations. And yet again he was distracted but this time by his own self.

 _What are Bolton men doing with the Freys?_

Over at a tent, Roland could see a crowd of Frey men talking amongst each other. Yet among them were one or three Bolton men, the flayed man cross emblazoned on their leather armor. Unlike the Freys, they were not participating in whatever conversation was occurring. Instead they were focused on sharpening their swords on whetstones. Like the Freys, there was no wavering in their movement and without a mug in sight.

 _Northern men not celebrating? Have the seven hells frozen over?_

Roland frowned at the strange sight. Bolton men were the bannermen of the Starks. Northernmen. And Northerners like most of Westeros in fact, hated the Freys. He looked over at the section of the camp where Lord Bolton's men resided. Even from the distance, Roland could see the men lounging about in their chainmail or standing to talk amongst themselves.

 _But not drinking,_ Roland thought. _The Freys and now the Boltons? Mayhaps they are nervous for the battle that will follow once we cross the river? No, the Bolton men are anything but craven. The freys, yes. But the Boltons? Never._

Roland's thoughts were interrupted by a loud baritone horn that vibrated ominously strong through the air for a good couple of seconds. The horn was loud enough to hear over the camp noise. Roland would think it to be a signal that riders were approaching, but each horn had a distinctive noise. And this one did not belong to the camp guards' usual horns.

 _Very queer_ Roland thought. His feet started to lead him to the entrance of the camp to investigate but was stopped in his tracks by the high metallic sound of swords being drawed out of their scabbards all at once. The next second men's' screams rang out drowning out the sound of the music and laughter. Roland spun on his heels and was met with the sight of a battlefield.

 _Seven hells, one second it's a camp and the next it's a battlefield._

Roland looked left and right. And all around him, men were falling, too drunk to even grasp their swords while their stomachs and throats were slit. Horns were now blowing on and off, Stark and Tully horns. There was shouting, lords trying to rally their men, trying to get them to follow directions while the Freys hacked their swords and bows at any man that did not have their sigil.

 _Fucking Freys!_ Roland thought. He turned sharply and ran towards his tent with all his might, dodging swinging swords and notched arrows whistled past him. Roland screamed at his soldiers and Northern men to draw their weapons and to follow him on his way. He need to organize his men quickly and try to regain some order in this chaos.

Need to regain my sword too, he thought as he swung his body to the right as another Frey clumsily tried to hack at his side. I'm easy prey without my fucking sword. He let out a sigh of relief when the Frey man was stabbed in the back by one of his men. He swiftly nodded his appreciation to the man before he charged into his tent. In a flurry of movement, Roland grabbed and unsheathed his sword that was laying on his bed and ran back outside. He was met with a few of his men that followed his command or at least sober enough to do so. Luckily for them, House Draton was at a distance from any sizable amount of Frey men. Right now, his men were staring at their lord with wide eyes, faces twisted grotesquely in fear. Around them, screams were now accompanied by clashing steel and the smell of burning flesh and wood. In the distance, Roland could see a huge blaze growing in the east side of the camp.

 _This is a fucking slaughter. Not even a battle._

"What do we do milord?!" shouted a man at Roland's front. His knuckles bone white as he clenched his bloody broadsword.

Fuck! What do we do? Roland's eyes scattered about the battle. Damn it! The hell do I know, the fucking King is at the wedding. The King!

"Men! Take a spearhead formation. We're cutting our way to the twin towers. We must reach our King!" Roland yelled over the screams and slaughter. Roland hoped that the mention of the Young wolf would raise their spirits and strengthen them. He was relieved to see that some had their faces and back straightened in resolve at the mention of their king. Reaching the King was the only idea that his mind brought forth. The King would know what to do. He raised his sword in stance and started to charge into the mass of people clashing steel. The first of the Freys that was met were easily cut down by Roland and his men.

 _Cheap armor and steel they're wearing. Lord Walder Frey does not waste his expenses, not even on the lives of his men,_ Roland's mind added.

Emboldened by the ease of cutting down the first of the Frey men. Roland shouted "Faster! We must reach the twins!" A Frey man lunged, arching his sword over Roland's head but he was too slow and his front was left defenseless. Roland blocked the path of the sword before sliding down its length into the man's neck. He dislodged his sword and the body slumped down lifelessly. He marched onwards cutting more and more Freys in his path. In the midst of the battle, more Tully and Northern men noticed and joined his small band of able fighting men. He yelled at them to move faster, they needed to reach the twins and they were close too. Only a couple more tents they needed to pass. Roland could already see the entrance gate but with that visibility, he could see that there was fighting in the twin towers as well. Roland cursed inwardly.

 _No, we need to get to the twins. The king is there and so are most of the lords._

As they worked their way to the front gate, cutting down more Frey men, Roland could see a group of Bolton men approaching them from the right with their swords and crossbows drawn.

 _Thank the sevens_ , Roland thought, _more help._

With that thought, six Freys lunged at the group from the left. Roland was quick enough to block one of the Frey's attack but from the corner of his eye, one of his compatriots was not as lucky as he was gutted He pushed back the Frey sword and hacked at his front where a spray of blood erupted from his enemy's face. Roland quickly cut down the man. He looked at his men who were still fighting off the others, and they were struggling too, struggling to raise their swords to block quickly enough.

 _They're tired_ Roland realized, Fuck! _Where are the Bolton men I saw?_ He turned his head to his right where he saw the Boltons. They were aiming their crossbows in their direction.

 _Finally,_ Roland thought _, what are they, green boys? Shoot the damn freys al-_ Roland cried out in agony as a sharp excruciating pain erupted from his right side. He looked down to see an arrow lodged deep in his flesh. He looked up, eyes widening in realization.

 _The fucking Boltons…_

But the thought was cut short by another sharp whistle of an arrow. There was a flash of pain in his left eye and then Roland felt and saw nothing.


End file.
